All the world’s
an ice rink
this morning before
the sun (no one can see
through freezing rain
and fear) fully rises. Where
did it go
when these bones began
to break and drop
to the lacquered
ground? Whose bones
will replace those
missing from this new silence?
I have become a double
shot espresso to make
the transition from afternoon
to evening smooth. To become civil
twilight burning full
force through
late winter urges
me onward. March’s
sooty snow be damned.
Plastic hotel room
key cards—two of them—left
in her purse. Everything
express, everything
virtual. Where does reality
slide in and out
to open ourselves
to the image of a framed
painting of a woman
who holds a chain—silver
plated—from which her idea
of home dangles? In suspension,
her slender arms wind horizontally
as a marionette
from another era. It is another era
where photorealistic pictures
with paint thick as a thief’s
rubber sole hang in the balance.
Relief that she is not
attending the regional pest
management conference
here in town
is not enough.
Sipping black coffee
in a refurbished hotel lobby
four blocks
from her apartment
is not enough.
Scribbling another reminder
note on a Post-It
not to forget PJs,
business cards, mouth wash
could be. Checking
the progress of that snowstorm
hovering over Boston
every 15 minutes
not likely. Exhaling
absolutely without question.
Will I
get the secret
code in time to enter
that Boston speakeasy after
hours?
A tiny soap bubble
forms, floats
through still air, drifts
to its ultimate
destination, demise
on porcelain
surface. More fragile
than her own ideas,
she turns away. Can’t bear
another scene
of destruction. Yet
the beauty of its gossamer
film stays with her
the rest of the day—bringing her more
strength than a thousand
poorly chosen words.
Your secret
is safe
with me. You
are not
safe with more
secrets.
Another one
passes. Halfway around
without him. The heat
of late summer
was closing in
that morning. Now late winter
hints at thaw
before another day
closes just a little bit
later than the one
before. Still not used to it.
Startled and chilled
by moments of awareness
of nonexistence. Or,
is that it? He exists
in the route I take
each morning to work,
in the choices
I make when I am truly
awake, in the words
I retrieve—sometimes with excruciating
slowness. In the messages
I hear in that February
wind. He’s there
in the backdrop
to an overripe
moon. There propelling
me to imagine the next
full one. Then again—
an infinitesimal speck,
how can I know? And that’s it—
the spiritual collision
he would have me lean into.
Who said woodpecker? How
will its shock-absorbency
system inspire me
to become my own
resource? An observation
made without an “I”
could be the most beautiful
hard-headedness of all.
“Rocket Man” is another one. “Sugar,
Sugar” “Hey Jude.” “Can’t
Get No Satisfaction”
“Georgy Girl.” More
than a personal history
lesson. More than nostalgia. This is
the indescribable
sound print
that tracks the birth
of my soul.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 